


The Seedbed of Our Love

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: The Seedbed of Our Love: Chapter 1/?Authors: quazonic and didzeaseRating: NC-17Word Count: 3041Pairing: John/Brian, in the future Paul/Brian, implied John/Paul (for now)Warning: future mindfuckery, dubcon, sadomasochism, dom/subDisclaimer: We don't own the Beatles or their entourage, and this story is nothing but fiction, written for the enjoyment of ourselves (and others obviously). We do not make money out of this.A/N: Inspired by a recent Beatle in the Closet story (involving Brian getting sucked off by a Beatle that wasn't John).And believe us, this will be EPPYC!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine, currently in locked status. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted 31 JANUARY 2010

  
  


>   
> **Prelude**  
>  John and Eppy sitting in a tree,  
> John hits Eppy and Eppy’s stung by a bee,  
> gets allergic and falls from the branch,  
> John punches him in the face  
> and then calls an ambulance.

  
  
  


**Chapter 1**

  
  
John closed the curtains, after he had locked the door and then double checked it. It seemed such an interesting subject to others, the things going on behind closed doors – even if they were ordinary things – and this certainly wasn’t _ordinary_ he supposed.  
  
Eppy was already waiting for him, sitting on the bed, like John had told him to. A blindfold took away his sense of sight, and the pair of cuffs was waiting on the bedside table. They were new – shiny and all-metal. Their previous cuffs had a lining of soft cloth but they did not leave enough bruises. Initially it had only been Eppy's idea but after a while John had seen the appeal. For a while, he hadn't been able to get the image of Eppy with bruised wrists out of his mind. Obviously, he would have to hide the sore spots under his sleeves so nobody would comment on it.   
  
"Hey," John greeted him with a curt nod. Eppy lowered his head. "Come here," John said, and took Eppy's wrists. They weren't bruised yet, but he'd make sure they would be within a very short time.  
  
"Don't touch me," Eppy pleaded - all a part of the act, and since their safety word was something entirely different (usually they chose one of the Beatles' song lyrics, although John made sure it would be from the early years since he couldn't be seen grinning maniacally on stage at the mention of sex in the form of such lyrics).   
  
"I will," John grunted. "Come on," he pulled at Eppy's arms, who finally relaxed his muscles. John clicked the handcuffs around Eppy's wrists, tying them to the bed frame.  
  
Eppy pulled at them weakly, but there was no chance they would come off without the necessary keys. Then John took off the blindfold – he wanted to see Eppy look at him.  
  
John started to roughly take off Eppy's trousers, not caring about the whines and moans coming from the older man. "Keep quiet," he only hissed, and then pulled the trousers off, along with his boxers. His shirt stayed on though, and John knew that Eppy wouldn't have enough time after he was released to get changed properly, so he would have to wear his come-stained shirt under his jacket.   
  
When Eppy was lying there, ready for him in the half-darkened room, John grinned at him meanly and took a kerchief from his coat's pocket. "You know," he told Eppy, "you better be quiet as I told you," and pushed the handkerchief into the man's mouth, fully muffling his groans and complaints. Then he got the tube with lube from his pocket, and put a little on his fingers - not enough to keep Eppy from hurting, and the friction would be unbearable by the time John would push in, but - he didn't care. It was worth it to see Eppy wriggle under him, pulling pained faces and trying to spit out the offending cloth in his mouth.  
  
"Come on," John groaned, and Eppy took the cue and pushed his hips up. John slid two fingers in at the same time, and he could see Eppy's muscles in his thighs tense and then relax again. After a while, John found the right spot inside his manager, and quickly pulled out his fingers. Without anywhere enough preparation, he knew that, but Eppy already looked at him lustfully, his cock hot and heavy against his stomach - where John had made sure not to touch him, and he wouldn't either. Eppy would either have to come from the only stimulation John was going to provide, or not come at all until John would finally uncuff him.  
  
He zipped down his trousers, and then took off his shirt. Eppy whimpered on the bed, his hips thrusting up into the air in search for friction he wouldn't find. Then John pushed down his trousers, and quickly stroked his half-hardened cock into fullness. He positioned himself, spreading Eppy's legs even wider, and then pushed himself in to the hilt, all at once, choking back a groan at the dry-hot friction it brought along. Eppy's fingers scrambled at the metal of the cuffs, clinking them against the bedpost as he tried to move his arms, but it wouldn't work anyway.  
  
Then there was a knock on the door. "John, what is happening in there?" Paul's concerned voice sounded from the corridor.  
  
"Nothing!" John shouted back, and Eppy looked panicked at him.   
  
"Are you sure?" Paul asked, "I hear some strange noises."  
  
"I'm fine, Paul, just fuck off!" John half-groaned as he pushed into Eppy again.   
  
"Alright," John could nearly hear Paul's sigh and roll of the eyes on the other side of the door. "Just make sure you'll be back downstairs in time for the press conference."  
  
"Just fuck off, will you?" John nearly shouted angrily now. It wasn't the first time Paul had interrupted them like this, but it didn't make John feel any more at ease. And even though the frightened look on Eppy's face was probably worth it anyway, he just couldn't be bothered taking care of Paul right now. The soft-faced - well, _kid_ , probably had no clue of what was going on in the room, and John had no intentions to ever tell him either.  
  
"Mnmh," Eppy said muffled, and looked at the doorknob. It looked as though somebody was rummaging about with it.  
  
"Fuck off Paul!" John shouted again, properly angry by now because of the double interruption and the tension in his body that was building. His thighs were trembling, and so did his voice, though just a little bit.  
  
"Just room service," a muffled female voice came from the other side of the door. John leaned his head against Eppy's neck, groaning and biting into his neck to prevent himself from bursting out in anger. His hips were moving relentlessly by now, pushing Eppy up further and further towards the head of the bed. It wouldn't be long until his head would repeatedly bang against the headboard, and his arms would be in an uncomfortable position that would give him cramps later on - cramps he no way could let be noticeable since they would be at the conference by then.  
  
Eppy started groaning louder and louder, and John could quickly feel the tension build in the pit of his stomach, his balls tightening as a warning for the upcoming orgasm. Biting down in Eppy's neck again, hard enough to draw blood, he stifled his shout as he came - overstimulated and hypersensitive from the friction. Eppy didn't.  
  
John pulled the moist handkerchief from Eppy's mouth, who immediately started gasping for breath. The marks in his necks were already colouring dark, and a trickle of blood started to seep into the collar of his shirt. John wiped it away with the used kerchief. Then he stepped back to take a proper look at the man laying on his bed, still writhing and twisting, but remembering not to make a sound – until the moment John looked at him.  
  
“Please,” Eppy begged, desperately. “I'll do anything you say, but please let me come.” John rolled his eyes, and stepped towards the bed again, even though usually he wouldn't give in.  
  
“You're lucky I'm generous today,” John warned him, and then got Eppy off in two, three strokes. He looked disgustedly at his hand, and then wiped it clean on Eppy's shirt. After this, he left to clean himself up in the bathroom. Five minutes later he emerged and let Eppy free, unlocking the cuffs and then walked out of the door with the keys in his own pocket. It was nearly time to give the press conference, and he would give Eppy some time to get himself dressed, even when there was no time to go to his own room for a clean shirt, or even tidy himself up a bit. “Oh,” he said, already standing in the door opening, “remember to try to look not too fucked. Otherwise you will have to consider yourself fucked so sore you can't sit the rest of this week.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Press conferences bored John. This was one out of so many on their American tour, and sitting in the brightly lit room behind a large table was not exactly one of his hobbies.  
  
"May I ask about the song 'Eleanor Rigby?' What was the motivation or inspiration for that?” somebody asked right at that moment.  
  
"Two queers," John replied with a straight face, and the room started laughing so John decided to add a little extra detail, “two barrow boys.” He cast a quick look in Brian's direction, at the side of the room, but their eyes didn't meet – John felt it, even though he couldn't actually see enough to make out Brian's eyes.  
  
"Oh, it's getting disgusting, this press conference..." Paul said, drawing John back to the present.  
  
Somebody else spoke up. "I'd like to address this to John and Paul. You write a lot of stuff that other people steal from you, and also purchase from you. Then they arrange it differently - Ella Fitzgerald and Boston Pops, stuff like that. When you listen to this on the radio or records and stuff, how do you feel about them using your pieces and changing them around to suit their styles?"  
  
"The thing is, they don't steal it,” Paul pointed out.  
  
"No. I know that," the interviewer replied. John snorted, the questioners always knew everything better, apparently – not willing to budge for the Beatles' genius.  
  
"Well, you just said they did!" Paul insisted. The room started laughing again. "Really I mean,” he continued, “you know, it's... Once we've done a song and it's published anyone can do it. So, you know, whether we like it or not depends on whether they've done it to our taste."  
  
"Well then, let's ask it this way,” the same person said, “who do you think does it the best... the Beatles' songs?"  
  
"Us." John replied, and the people once again started laughing. _God_ , he thought, _this crowd really is too easy_.  
  
"Who?" the imbecilic interviewer repeated, and John risked looking at Brian. Even though everything was blurred, he knew very well which one of the persons by the side was Brian, and even if he hadn't until now he would have discovered soon enough.  
  
"Us," John repeated loudly. _Us, Eppy,_ he thought, _with you willingly tied to or bent over the bed in whichever hotel room_. The memories were entertaining.  
  
The figure, still standing there, was starting to twist and turn uncomfortably. John thought he was probably anxious for the press conference to end, so he could finally change his sticky and stained shirt into something clean. Then finally he wouldn't have to be afraid of anybody finding out about his sordid hobbies.   
  
For now, at least.  
  


* * *

  
  
Paul wasn’t stupid. Of course, he didn’t know every single little detail about how money and taxes worked or how politics ran the world, but that wasn’t his job, was it? No, his job was being a Beatle, and if a Beatle knew one thing, it was the sound of sex.   
   
John and Brian were fucking each other. Not occasionally, not once in a while, but _bloody often_. In fact, they weren’t even discrete about it.  
   
Press conferences. Puns, innuendos and in-jokes. John _littered_ them with it. It made Paul feel disgusted with the way John was handling what should have been a private affair. ‘Two queers’? How much more obvious did he have to be? That quick little glance at Brian after he’d said that said far, far more than two simple words ever could.  
   
The John and Brian thing began almost overnight. One minute John was firing queer jokes at Brian with a casual offhandedness, then the next minute he was _still_ firing queer jokes with a casual offhandedness but with a new, crueller undertone. It was subtle – like the way John subtly interpreted the press’ questions in the dirtiest way imaginable – but Paul wasn’t stupid. Saying ‘us’ to the ‘who do you think does it best’ question could only mean one thing when looking at Brian. Only _one thing_ , and it was in no way innocent.  
   
Oh, it helped that the hotel walls were paper-thin too.  
   
But. This John and Brian affair didn’t _really_ happen overnight. Brian had long ago sown the seeds – so to speak – by holidaying with his best mate in Spain. Things had progressed from there, he supposed. Not that he really understood how queer things worked because he obviously wasn’t queer. Neither was John, actually, yet suddenly (and not so suddenly) he was fucking Brian and that was…  
   
Well, all right – he’d finally reached the point where he was fucking _curious_ about how that worked. About why he never got hit on by queers. And why Brian picked John as The One. Wasn’t he supposed to be The Cute One? All right, so maybe John was _The One_ but Paul was still The Cute One, damn it.  
   
Then he wondered if queers saw things like normal people did. Well, he knew he got turned on by birds – especially the sweet, pretty ones who flirted – so, by the same reasoning, if he was sweet, pretty and flirted, would Brian come lapping at his heels too?  
   
He tried it once. With a chocolate-coated strawberry. He licked it. Curled his tongue around it in the filthiest way imaginable, leaned back with a sigh, closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of melting chocolate sliding down his throat. And what had Brian done?  
   
He stared.  
   
And that was it. Literally.  
   
It was so _frustrating_.  
   
However, it wasn’t like he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about this. He had girls – plenty of girls – on tour that on most nights he barely gave John and Brian a second thought. But _tonight_ – well, they were just being bloody obvious, weren’t they?  
   
“’Ey, Eppy, Rings is being a right prick! He won’t show me his cards!” John said from his place on the floor, the other three Beatles completing the tight circle formed around a haphazard pile of cards.  
   
Brian patiently poured himself another scotch and coke from where he stood by the cabinet. “That’s because you’re not _meant_ to see what he has, John.”  
   
“Aye, but prick or not, I should see it anyway,” John replied.  
   
“You should?” Ringo said, looking up with a dumbfounded expression on his face.  
   
“Not _should_ , I do in fact,” John said, suddenly fixing Brian with what Paul thought was the most pointed look he had ever seen.   
   
“You _do_?” Ringo said, oblivious, shielding his cards against his chest.  
   
“I do,” John said smugly. “But it’s not much, really – don’t you agree, Eppy?”  
   
Brian nearly choked on his drink. “Well…”  
   
“Half the time it doesn’t do anything, you know, seeing your _cards_. And you never win anyway.”  
   
“’Ey, I do! I did! Just yesterday,” Ringo said indignantly.  
   
“But it never lasts, does it?” John asked, a gleam in his eye.  
   
Paul coughed uncomfortably into his hand and quickly tossed the next appropriate card down.  
   
“Hey, it’s not your turn!” John exclaimed, throwing the card back at Paul.  
   
“It is now – you’re taking too long!” Paul snapped, putting the card back on the pile.  
   
“Fuck off!”  
   
Paul laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with?”  
   
“Unfortunately, given the circumstances, yes!” John said with a leer.  
   
Paul felt his face heat up. “Piss off,” he muttered, looking down at his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George and Ringo exchange a look.  
   
“Right lads, we’re off to bed,” Ringo announced, hastily rising with George.  
   
“Ooh _really_! Dear me, the things children get up to these days!” John squealed, pretending to faint on the floor.  
   
George just rolled his eyes and left, Ringo following a moment later. John just snickered behind their retreating backs. “Fucking queer, that is,” he chuckled, sitting up again. “Who do you think the bird is, Paul? Rings or Georgie?”  
   
Paul just glared at his cards, then threw them down. “I’m sick of this game,” he declared. “Let’s play another.”  
   
“Eh, I’m all out. You’ve spent me, Paul,” John replied dramatically.  
   
Paul caught the shrewd look he sent his way, but refused to rise to the bait. “Bed, then?”  
  
“Well, now that you mention it…” John said cheekily.  
   
Paul glared at him outright then – all right, if he wanted a rise, he’d give him one.  
   
“’Ey, Bri,” Paul said, suddenly inspired, wandering over to where Brian was unobtrusively cleaning up the mess they’d left on the floor. “Fancy a holiday after the tour’s over?”  
   
“Oh, _definitely_ ,” Brian replied with a smile. “In fact, I was thinking of –”  
   
“Fancy coming to Spain?”  
   
Brian froze, his hand midway to picking up an abandoned coke bottle. He audibly gulped. “With you?”  
   
“Yeah. With me,” Paul said, a challenge in his eyes as he tried to keep the smirk off his face – Brian was attracted to him on some level after all!  
   
Brian fidgeted, but a smile was growing on his face. “Well…”  
   
“That’s the fucking most daftest, stupidest idea I’ve ever heard in me life,” John suddenly said loudly, rising to his feet as well and glaring in Paul’s face. “We’ve already been to Spain, haven’t we, Brian? Fucking boring if we go again.”  
   
Brian looked at him then, almost meekly, as if remembering himself. “Where would you suggest then, John?”  
   
“Paris,” John said decisively, anger etched in every line of his face.  
   
Paul gaped, then glared at him. “Who said you’re coming? Besides, we’ve already been there!”   
   
“But _we_ haven’t,” John countered, gesturing at himself and Brian who was suddenly blushing profusely.  
   
“What –”  
   
“You’re not the only one who needs a _holiday_ , Paul,” John said, cutting across him with a sneer. “Can’t fucking wait for this tour to be over now, eh?” He kicked at an empty bottle by his foot, sending it skidding across the floor, and walked away.  
  
  
 _to be continued..._


	2. Interlude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Seedbed of Our Love: Interlude 1  
> Authors: quazonic and didzease  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Pairing: John/Brian, John/Paul  
> Warning: future mindfuckery, dubcon, sadomasochism, dom/sub  
> Disclaimer: We don't own the Beatles or their entourage, and this story is nothing but fiction, written for the enjoyment of ourselves (and others obviously). We do not make money out of this. Please pay us though. You can deposit the money in your toilet and we will ensure it shall reach us.
> 
> Originally posted 04 MARCH 2010

Sonnet I

quazonic and didzease  
A truly tremendous pair of writers  
Are not very well at ease  
With writing lovers rather than fighters

So instead this great pair of artists  
Not wholly unlike Lennon and McCartney  
Without obviously all the arse sex  
Shall tell you something quite new

For now there will be no story  
No quick update or random blog  
All there be is a poem of euphory

Because no matter what we thought  
John/Eppie is the brilliant pairing  
Writing is something we don't while we ought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work will forever stay a WIP and ends here


End file.
